Chapter 97: His Name Was Rick Miller
Upon returning from his week-long venture, he discovered her dead in her bed. According to the doctors, she died of a stroke. The body had been cold for three days.
In other words, nobody had checked on her. Nobody even noticed her.
After that, his world went dark. A strange pair of hands weighed down on his shoulders. Some nights, when he was tired, his mom would massage them.
Not anymore. Now, Rick was alone.
His dad didn’t learn about her death until half a year after. He called Paul, muttered his apologies and condolences, and invited him for a private dinner. Just the two of them, no older brother or trophy wife involved
From the start, it was a tense, stupid affair. What else did his dad expect?
Rick sat across from his father, his gaze fixed on his plate and his clenching. His dad had gotten old over the years, almost as old as his mom. The towering power he had simmered. Lines went down his face and he struggled to find the right words to bridge the chasm that had widened between them.
His dad cleared his throat, the sound echoing in the strained quietness of the dining table. "Rick, I notice you have a job."
Rick’s grip tightened on his utensils, his knuckles turning white. His eyes flickered up briefly. "A truck driver."
"A...truck driver." His dad swallowed hard and looked away. "I’m sorry."
"What’s so wrong about that? I live my life, you live yours."